Pet me in Pittsburgh

Until a few weeks ago, I lived a reasonably full life without ever seeing Pittsburgh. As you probably know, that’s the chilly corner of Pennsylvania famous for pierogies, Pirates, Penguins and Steelers. But you have to personally experience Pittsburgh to discover that it is also the perpetual roadwork capital of Earth.

Barring blizzards, you can make it from Myrtle Beach to almost Pittsburgh in 10 hours, which is where you should plan to camp, rent or die. The last few miles—from almost Pittsburgh to really Pittsburgh—will take three days.

Some very nice Pittsburgh folks invited the service-dog charity I work with to experience fundraising up North. Nonprofits are prolific panhandlers, so we wasted no time loading 15 service dogs into an RV and heading to Pennsylvania. The dogs are great travelers, but the humans were getting crankier with every passing road cone. I don’t mean amateur cranky; I mean Olympic cranky.

Hungry, tired and dirty, we had just gotten out of the rig when a big, shirtless guy came flying up, armed with a selfie stick, looking for a furry photo op. He was the kind of 20-something Pittsburgh exports to Myrtle Beach for spring break, but we drove 700 miles to meet this one. He introduced himself as Buffalo Bob. Between you and me, we weren’t really in a Buffalo Bob mood.

The dogs didn’t know what to make of the stick thing or the bare-chested stranger trying to grab them. A selfie stick, in case you haven’t been whacked with one yet, looks like the contraption your shrinking grandma uses to grab the pickles off the top shelf. It’s basically a 3-foot pole with a clip to extend cell-phone cameras beyond arm’s reach, so guys like Bob can capture themselves at the opera, winning a burping contest or hugging a pack of service dogs wearing vests that say, “Do Not Pet.”

We tried dog vests that said, “Please Ask to Pet Me,” but well-meaning people kept dropping down on their knees, getting nose to nose with the dog, to request the animal’s permission. Some petters got upset when the dog didn’t answer, so we made the directions easier.

In Bob’s case, it didn’t matter what the vest said. He was on a mission to pet every last dog and preserve the moment for posterity. Or Instagram.

Me: “Please don’t pet them. They’re working.”

Bob: “Nah, they’re just hanging out.”

Me: “They’re waiting for their next task. You wouldn’t walk into an office and try to pet the receptionist, would you?”

Bob: “Sure, if she was furry. Can you skooch left? You’re blocking my shot.”

At that point, having exhausted diplomatic negotiations, we shuffled all the dogs back into the RV and locked the doors. Bob huffed and puffed and knocked with his selfie stick, but we pretended nobody was home.

“You’ll be sorry. My stuff always goes viral,” he said to the RV as we peered out a slit in the blinds.

Bob kept circling while we unpacked, ate, fed the pups and waited.

“The dogs have to pee,” the trainer said. “How do we make him leave?”

Then a lightbulb went off. I cracked the door just wide enough to slip Bob $20 and send him on a beer run. With any luck, he’d start without us and forget where the RV was parked.

Bob took off, never to return. We’ll just have to wait for spring break.

Jan A. Igoe learned that Pittsburgh’s chief export is southbound tourists. She is eternally grateful to live in paradise, where heavy traffic means five cars using the same road, spring break notwithstanding. Share the fun here.